Unreachable
by CriticsCubby
Summary: Sometimes, you need a helping hand to reach things that you cannot.


**Unreachable**

**Disclaimer -** I don't own them and I'm very excited to see what those that do have in store for them this season!

**Summary -** Sometimes, you need a helping hand to reach things that you cannot.

**A/N -** This is probably going to be a bit different than what I normally write...apologies in advance. It's almost 1am and I've had too much caffeine so, it is what it is! Also, thank you to those of you that read and thank you to those that read & review; I write these mostly just to get them out of my head, so to see that others get at least a bit of enjoyment out of them is always nice :)

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Watson could hear him all the way upstairs. She didn't rush down, but she couldn't concentrate on the book she was reading (Rats: Observations on the History and Habitat of the City's Most Unwanted Inhabitants, Sherlock's required reading list goes ever onward) and she knew that there would likely be some sort of quiz later. A muffled yell and a loud crash finally prompted her to snap her book shut and go investigate.

In the kitchen, she found Sherlock sitting shirtless at the table, gloved hands, tattoo paraphernalia spread about him, various books on the floor, head resting on the table in front of him.

"Are you okay?" She asked, tentatively from the far end of the room.

"What ever gave you the idea that I was not?" Head still on the table, his tension palpable in his tone.

"I heard a crash and you've been less-than-quietly groaning for the better part of an hour.." She walked toward him cautiously.

"I can't reach it." He looked up, defeated.

"What? I thought you were just touching up one of your arm pieces; are you working on something new?"

"I was just touching up but then I decided that enough was enough; I can't stand to look at it anymore. You are an adept surgeon, Watson, but even you left a scar." He pointed to the pink line just above his shoulder blade.

"Oh...Look, I'm sorry about that..If I had had proper.." She started, walking closer to him, pointing toward the offending area.

Sherlock cut her off, "I presume that it's due to your lack of practice prior to the incident but, never the less, every time I feel it, I think of her."

"I understand." She sat in the chair opposite him, knowing that she didn't fully understand, knowing that she never really would.

"I realize that simply covering it up won't make it go away. However, once the idea popped into my head...well, you know how it works, I can't seem to forget it." He smiled slightly, trying to lighten the mood, and removed his gloves.

"Boy do I.." She smiled in return. "So, what are you going to cover it with?" Genuinely curious.

"Watson, I would think you would know better. One cannot 'cover' scars; one must _incorporate_ them." He pulled out a sketch from underneath the tattoo gun.

"Sorry, I haven't quite gotten through the scar-tissue books yet.." She joked, hand held out for the sketch.

"Obviously." He mumbled, handing over the artwork.

She heard him and gave him a sharp look as she took the piece of paper. It wasn't what she had expected. Though, why she had expected _anything_ she couldn't say; Sherlock was not always easy to predict, even for Watson.

Instead of a word or even something like a cross or even a bee, what Sherlock had chosen to be the piece to help him get past Moriarty, to help him forget the lie that was Irene, was a flower.

"It is an _Epipogium aphyllum_." He offered quietly.

"The 'Ghost Orchid'." She added.

"Do you know it?" He inquired; he had not expected her to recognize the sketch.

She nodded, looking at him, "It's one of the rarest flowers in the world; the blooming season is so unpredictable that it's almost impossible to find them if you don't know where to look."

"Correct, found all over the globe and void of chlorophyll, they are both mysterious and beautiful." He spoke, eyes alight.

"What made you choose this as your design?" She asked curiously, not quite prepared for his answer.

"Watson, Irene-slash-Moriarty will always be a part of me; she was the first woman that I truly let in and the impact of our encounter will forever influence my interactions with others. I cannot deny that. However, I like to think that there is much to be gained from the ordeal; more, even, than was ever lost." His voice was steady, as though he had prepared for this question.

Watson listened, not quite sure where he was going with this but very intrigued to find out.

"Irene was the first, but she was not the last." He continued, looking at Watson unblinkingly. "I do not deny that your presence here was not wanted, at first; I loathed the idea that I, Sherlock Holmes, 'needed' anyone to help me, to get me back on track. I realized, however, that I did not need you to get me back on track, I needed you to help me see that I was off of it. It wasn't that I was blinded by addiction, oh no, I was quite aware of that particular aspect of my downfall; I was blinded by my encounter with Irene. I did not want to go through that ever again. I still don't, actually, but you showed me that although great loss is always possible...it is not inevitable. You stayed. You continue to stay. I cannot fathom what compels you to do so, Watson, as I'm quite aware how difficult I am to deal with, and yet..here you sit." He gestured toward her frozen form and leaned back against the chair.

"The orchid..?" She whispered, looking down at her hands clasped in front of her.

"The _Epipogium aphyllum_, a rare and beautiful flower that flourishes when it's in the company of what some would see as a parasite. Without the fungus, the flower cannot emerge and, without the flower, the fungus cannot truly reach its potential. While I know, Watson, that your life would have been perfectly alright without me in it, I also know that our lives are exceedingly extraordinary because I am."

When he finished, he looked up, seeing that she was staring at him, not quite finished processing what he had shared.

"So," she began after about ten seconds of silence, "you can't reach it?" She stood up, walking the short distance between them.

Sherlock smiled.

"Alas, I cannot! I have twisted and contorted and stretched to no avail. It seems as if I might have to reach out to a fellow artist to help me this time; though I do loathe the thought of another's gun to my skin." He shivered at the idea of the intrusion.

"Hmm.."

"What is it?" He asked, noting the spark that had just appeared in her eyes; he liked that spark, it meant adventure.

"Well, I _did_ just finish reading all those studies about tattooing and its correlation to assumed social standings… I mean, I'm not sure that I could do it, but I could try?" She offered, hoping he'd consent; she had been itching to try for a while now but hadn't wanted to admit it to Sherlock.

"While I do not think that reading a few studies has equipped you to go about tattooing strangers, I do think that with proper guidance, this might work. I will, of course, need to have it touched up by an actual artist but the less time another gun is on my skin, the better. Alright, Watson, let's see what you've got." He was excited and, though he would never admit it, nervous; he trusted Watson with his deepest and darkest secrets as well as with his life but trusting her with a tattoo gun? A bit of a different story.

She pulled her chair close to him, grabbed a pen, and sat down. She began tentatively at first, lightly putting pen to skin, sketching the lines of the orchid. It was a simple flower; small and with few petals, the center of the top petal is where the raised tissue of the scar would be, incorporated into the pattern of the faint pigment of the ghostly plant.

As she sketched, he watched. Her concentration was intense, much like watching her work a case. The pen to skin was rough but not painful, her left hand steadying his shoulder was warm and her touch firm but light at the same time. For the first time, in a long time, Sherlock sat still. Watson smiled.

"What?" He asked quietly.

"You're being so still...it's weird!" She laughed.

"Well, one does have to be fairly steady when inking so perhaps you should practice some stillness as well." He replied crisply. She muffled a laugh and continued to work. Five very still minutes later, she stopped and sat up straight.

"What do you think?" She asked tentatively. He reached for the handheld mirror on the table and positioned it so he could see the sketch.

"It's perfect, Watson. Now all you have to do is make it permanent." He stated, setting the mirror down and handing her a pair of bright purple gloves.

She took a deep breath, pulled on the gloves, and grabbed the tattoo gun.

"Don't be nervous, Watson, I trust you." He reassured, smiling slightly.

She leaned forward, adjusted the lamp on the table so that it was casting the right amount of light on the area, and got to work. She was, admittedly, quite shaky at first and there were a couple of times that Sherlock noticeably flinched, but as she continued, they both relaxed. There was a sort of rhythm to the process that she found soothing; the vibration of the needle in the gun was somehow comforting and the immediacy of the color on the skin was fascinating. As she continued, the orchid took shape; the colors faint but the lines sharp.

When she finished, she turned off the machine and wiped the area one more time. She set down the gun and slid off her gloves. Sherlock's eyes were closed but she knew he was awake. She reached for the mirror and whispered his name. Opening his eyes, he took the mirror from her and held it over his shoulder.

"Watson, I do believe this is perfect. Now there is an orchid both on my shoulder and," he paused, looking past the mirror to her, "in my heart." He finished quietly.

-fin

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a/n 2 - the rat book and flower are real, I did stretch some details on the flower, though. Also, def aware that the likelihood of Watson being capable of that tattoo on her first try is slim...it's fanfic, just let it happen :P


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